The Last Dragon
by The Phantom Penance
Summary: The House of Dragons was nearly cut out in the Rebellion, but would it so if there was one more dragon left to fight? Or is the outcome already decided? That the end of a mighty dynasty was not only inevitable, but necessary? SELF-INSERT! READ AND HAVE FUN!


**Hello gang, this is the Phantom Penance with a new fanfic! A real shame that the last one didn't work, I had such great ideas for it, but the story didn't take.**

 **But like I said, I have an even better fanfic ready! But first, there's some ground rules that need to be established.**

 **PAY ATTENTION** **: If you've ever read my other stories, then by now, you should get an inkling that I don't like to curse in my writing. I find it wrong. Words have the most devastating effect on others and curse words are classified as words that solely** _ **hurt.**_

 **However, I am writing about a world where subtlety- and a decent education- are privileges for the highborn, so I will have to reach a medium somewhere. Therefore, I will use the grand total of TWO words, both of which will not be used often or misused in any way. They will be used to their** _ **literal**_ **definition.**

 **This will be the only fanfic in where this happens so don't get used to it being in all of my writing.**

 **Now that the dirty deed has been done, let's begin a tale of love, desperation, and war! Let's begin The Road of the Last Dragon!**

 **DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN ANYTHING!**

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Fire and Blood. Fire and Blood. What's with my family and its crazed fixation on killing?

The Lannisters' "Hear me roar" is focused on glory, the pride of a lion and what it can do when they are tall and strong. Baratheon's "Ours is the Fury" focuses on the stag, a majestic creature of the forest that has a ferocity unmatched by many creatures when provoked. Even "Winter is Coming" has significance.

Then there's Fire and Blood. What's the point of it? Do we exist to kill and set things on fire? Were we descendants of wildlings? Do we _have_ to kill everything?

It's become a habit of mine to think about such things when I wake prematurely from my rest nowadays, since I have little to nothing else to do with my spare time. If you want excitement in Westeros, you're going to have to pay a woman for it, or start a fight. Good luck surviving the latter.

Anyway, excitement is quite allergic to me and I share its feelings. When there's excitement in _my_ life, it is nearly always caused by one man particular and his motives are never in favor of my general health.

 _Aaaaahhhh…_ this is comfortable. You can't believe how much in peace I am. The gentle rock of the waves –large contrast the storms I've experienced- the quiet of the ship, truly, I have found my-

" _Wake up maggot!"_ Someone yelled in my ear, followed by slapping my head.

Now sporting a decent headache, my body shuddered and groaned as I got out of my bed and joined the dozen of other men all just as annoyed as I am, but nevertheless, moving much faster than I. These men were hardened sailors, used to being ravaged by the sea and not the other way around, and they have sunburns all over their body as a testament to it.

Not me though. Spent several months on the sea and still look as pale as bedsheets, the crew _loves_ to remind me of it every day. Oh well, what can I do?

Oh, that's right. Stop wasting the sunlight and unload the merchandise.

Fresh scents and bright sunlight hit my face when I came topside of the ship. To my unfortune, the shipping company I was forced to work on was one that dealt with livestock, so I and the crew smelled like an unholy combination of goat and cow muck for weeks. However, it made the fresh scent of spices Dorne was famous for much more enjoyable.

"Here you go, My Lady," snickered a man by the name of Dung, he held out the rope for two black goats. "Saved em' just for you."

Why he was name Dung was on the account of a rather large mole he had on his face, and why he called me a lady is an easy one: I was cursed with being the prettiest sailor in the ocean.

"Thank the Seven for that," I gasped with a smirk. "I don't have to deal with ugly blums like you for a while longer."

Not my best comeback, but I've ran out of those on my second year with the men and I've been with them for five years. Perhaps I'll be with them for five more, that is, if my father doesn't change his mind and kill me already like he's claimed he would.

Once I got them down at the end of the ever busy docks, I tied the goats down with the famous Sailor's Knot. It was quick, tight, and most commonly used by those who are (surprise surprise!) sailors. The donkeys don't even make a struggle, they were completely oblivious to the fact that they may be spending their last days in the lavishes of Dorne.

The rest of us can only wish we go out the same way.

I take one last look at the donkeys and –more importantly- the knot, and barely turned around from my handiwork when a burly Northerner named Grunt chucked a cage full of three chickens at me.

"Load em' up, Pretty Boy." Grunt…..grunted. His name's Grunt –you get the idea.

Dung, Grunt, who would name their children such names? The crew would, based off what they look like or what they normally do. However, don't ask me about Trout. No one knows about Trout except the captain and that poor soul he drowned.

As Grunt has said, my name's Pretty Boy. In a sad sense, my life probably would have faired better if I _was_ named Pretty Boy.

The chickens squawked, fluffing out their golden feathers back and forth. That's how you know a chicken's from Dorne. Most of the Dornish animals were as gold as the sun, or money.

Load the chickens, unload the goat…..droppings that were so diligently collected in buckets. After unloading the merchandise (which always came first), a check on the trusty ship was made, three days of shore leave (most of which the men spend in a tavern or a brothel), then back out into the ocean blue.

It's a taxing job, to be sailor who focuses on livestock, a common want in Westeros, one that demands you to give your life out to the sea, that beautiful and deadly maiden. Perhaps if I wasn't forced to do it, I might have willingly sailed her waters.

But as it happens, I didn't choose it. It was chosen for me, and the people who made the choice just came back.

"That looks hard. And heavy."

A smile crept up on my face. I knew that smooth as wine voice like I grew up with it, mostly because it was the voice of the last highborn I've ever talked to since my…. acclamation into the life of sails and dirty animals.

I dropped the box of chicken feed. "It's called work. Perhaps you've heard of it, maybe partake on occasions."

The Dornish man clothed in orange walked in circles around me, rubbing his beard and staring me down, no doubt in deep thought. "I partake, but clearly not in the same way you do. My particular work involves a spear, or a woman. Not a box."

"Why did I even bother?" I sighed dramatically. "Trust a Dornish highborn to know what _honest_ work is, and he'll think you speak in High Valryian."

"My apologies, I did not know that you took such pride in your…..experience with lifting boxes. I will trust your superior knowledge in these arts and-"

"Why are you here Oberyn?" I cut through. His voice was smooth to the ears, but my ears never had the patience for it. I suppose I have changed just a little out in the sea.

The second prince of Dorne stared a moment longer before procuring a parchment from his pockets. "This arrived a few days before your ship came to port. Your presence here was apparently anticipated."

I merely sighed as I unrolled the parchment. So much for the sea making honest men, but I suppose I should have expected no less from my father. He's always been a paranoid one. The letter was smooth to the touch and layered with black ink and words written with love and gentleness, both of which Father is not capable of.

This wasn't written by him, it was written by _her._ Regardless, her writing, but his words.

"He wants me home." I informed Oberyn. I felt that he was entitled to knowing a bit about the message he carried and diligently did not open until my arrival, besides, he also left something quite precious back home.

"Mother wasn't very specific, but it looks like Father has need of me. Perhaps the sewage is clogged up, or there is an excess of dung that needs to be dealt with."

"You think too lowly of yourself." Oberyn commented. "Perhaps, in his olden age, he has come to see you for the son you are."

Funny man. Too funny.

Of course, I chuckled. Of course my soul was far from the chuckle along with my heart. "Father has long shown with me his perspective of exactly what I am to him."

I sat on the crate. "Let's see…..I have worked in a gold mine –naturally, with slaves-, worked on a farm and promptly after that, a butcher, and this here ship. All meaningless and demeaning tasks to make sure I woke up every day and remember who I am: vermin. Filth. _A bastard."_

Bastard. I say it so casually now, yet it falls off my tongue and turns into another chain that I have to carry until the day I die. Not that it matters, I have many other chains.

"Very well," Oberyn relented. "You may believe what you choose, but do not say I did not try to help. I'll have a ship ready within the day, unless….you prefer to use this beautiful vessel."

I didn't even have to look back. "Get me a ship. And food."

As Oberyn left, I stared at the message that had undoubtedly changed my life, and it filled me with more emotions I've had in this brief moment than I had in all five years at sea, chief among them being joy that I don't have to see the same old faces again.

After so long, I was going to see people who actually loved me, so it is probably a good idea if I should freshen up a bit, I must smell like manure. After seeing them, I'll have to face my father once again, and whatever torture he's come up with now.

Anything he has for me is bound to be of evil intent, and yet, I find myself filled with anticipation, eagerness. I don't like excitement, yet I find myself craving it. Do I want to die that badly?

Perhaps, perhaps. At any rate, the best I can do is to obey my father, and return home.

 **(LINE BREAK)**

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 **(LINE BREAK)**

Days of a gentle sea and a few more riding on horseback farther North has done nothing to calm my nerves down, rather excite them all the more. I don't recall the Crownlands being this cold! Must be me, so used to warmer weather, but we were very close to the place of my birth: the Red Keep of King's Landing. And in case you haven't caught on, my father is indeed the King of Westeros.

King Aerys Targaryen, Second to His Name, King of the-titles, titles, meaningless titles- and that would make me his son, Aegor Targaryen, his legitimate bastard. Legitimate bastard, how confusing right? Well, the truth is just that.

There was a time when Aerys Targaryen was unfaithful to his wife and sister, Rhaella (had it been _my_ sister, I would not have been faithful either), and he had many mistresses. But as the ages grew on, Aerys grew to be the monster I had the unfortunate pleasure of growing up with, and became faithful to his sister.

But not before killing all his mistresses. Brutally. By being burnt to the stake.

He was….fixated on maintaining the pure Targaryen line and legacy, a belief he undoubtedly picked up from his Hand, and coupled by the paranoia of his growing madness, he believed his lovers were all plotting against him. So he acted accordingly to his impulses.

Then he discovered one of his lovers was with child. My mother. That day…..he bid his time like a serpent.

He waited till I was born and old enough to remember the greatest lesson of all, that my life was his to be used and discarded, not the other way around, then burned my mother to a smoldering crisp and forced me to watch.

I still hear the screams, still smell the fire, still hear his laughter. After a while, I finally found out from my mother (Rhaella) what possessed Aerys to wait years to kill a woman who had done him know harm.

" _The voices told him to."_ That was all she said, and all I needed to hear. Why I am still alive is because I have Targaryen blood inside of me. I may never be a full dragon in his eyes, but I am still of dragons. But that doesn't mean I'll be a Prince of the Seven Kingdom, he'd rather die before letting that happen.

Which begs the question: why am I back in the streets of King's Landing?

The streets hardly changed: crowded with busy people living out their busy lives with the occasional guard walking about to keep order, not that they really had to. I felt it the moment my horse stepped in the gates, a sense of tenseness gripped this city. Like a common fear of something that could just pop out at any minute, the only thing I could compare it with is like a child's fear of a monster hiding underneath their bed.

Except the monster was very real.

A Targaryen soldier stared straight at me when I arrived at the doorsteps of the Red Keep, as if trying to recognize me if he stared at my eyes long and hard enough. Not entirely comforting.

"Come right this way. His Majesty is waiting for you." He eventually spoke, opening the door to the castle of kings.

"Right," I breathed. "We should finish this first." Meeting with Father sooner rather than later will make everything-especially me-be better. And yet, I had hopes that-

" _Brother!"_

I barely had the time to acknowledge the shout before I felt the hug. A tight hug from a man of great, white hair. I won't lie, my heart melted away at the joy that was shown to me, I hugged back with all my might.

"Rhaegar, you've grown!" I laughed as I pulled away from him so I could get a proper look at him, but that only made me laugh some more. "And you're _still_ shorter than me!"

Perhaps he was only two or three inches shorter than me, but it was enough to get him humiliated. "My hair is longer than yours!" He shot back.

"That only shows you do not take care of yourself properly, the _one_ thing I told you to do before I left." I replied before sighing. "Seems I can't even trust you to yourself."

In truth, Rhaegar looked better than ever. His face was still unmarred, his white hair reaching his lower back whereas mine stopped at my shoulders, and a well-kept body hidden underneath Targaryen royal garbs. His hands still had the delicacy of a scholar, yet strength of a skilled warrior. In essence, he was _nearly_ as good as me.

We've never really discovered who was born first, Rhaegar and I, but we never really cared. When Aerys wasn't paying attention, we would do many things together, as long as he could bring his books and musical sheets.

I (mostly) taught him how to fight, though he never took to it. Figured he was the pretty boy out of the two of us, might as well learn how to protect his face.

"You must come see Rhaenys and Aegon!" He persisted. "They haven't seen their uncle since they were young-well, Rhaenys hasn't seen you, you've never met Aegon…."

"I'd love to, but in due time," I replied, noticing the guard's impatience. "First, I have to-"

"I think that would be very lovely."

Another familiar voice, another cord struck in my heart. So gentle was her step, she was practically floating her way to us. Her hair was longer than mine and Rhaegar's and held the color of the moon itself. Mother Rhaella was as angelic as the day I first knew her, but there were many changes that only a blind man could miss.

She was heavily pregnant, and there were deep indents around her eyes, deep enough and dark enough to almost be mistaken for black eyes. My mother, my gentle mother, was being tortured and worked to death. People may not see it, but her strength was fleeting, and it made me mad.

Mad at the man who was killing her slowly.

"Mother. I'm extremely happy to see you again." I spoke with complete honesty.

Queen Rhaella returned the smile I gave her. "It feels me with happiness to see my two sons under the same roof again. It's been long due since Rhaegar had a reason to sing again."

"My Queen, My Prince, if I may," the guard interjected, "but our….Prince's presence is demanded by the King immediately."

Those words sapped the joy in our little reunion. I have never seen such a range of hateful emotions flash upon Rhaegar and Mother's face so quickly, but I doubt such emotions did not cross my own face either.

"Yes…of course." Rhaegar muttered before he brightened up again. "Perhaps I'll see you….another time."

"Should I be forced away, I won't leave without saying goodbye." I swore to him before he walked away. I was about to leave when my arm was grabbed.

"Do not linger. Do not stray out of line. Do not give him a reason to burn you alive, your face will be more than enough for him." Mother warned with sternly, and also with a bit of desperation.

I stared into her eyes, the eyes of my mother who had loved a bastard like me as her own son, and I saw pain. Pain and fear. Pain of what Father had done to her, done to the realm, and fear of finding out what else he could do to both.

Believe me, any decent son would _kill_ to get rid of that look on their mother's face. It's just sad that the problem happened to be the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms.

She hasn't released my arm, so she must be expecting some sort of promise from me. "I will. I promise."

She softened up a little, and like a hesitant mother letting her child try something new, she let me go. Let me go to face the creator of all her pain.

The first smell that hit my nose in the throne room: Death. A putrid combination of smoke and seared flesh reigned in the large room with a black scorch mark on the ground, right in front of the black throne that was the Iron Throne, and the man who sat on it.

The man who sat on the throne and guarded by half a dozen guards looked more of an old fool than a king. His hair and his nails were grown out, and unlike Rhaegar or Mother, neither had been dealt with in some time. The hair especially was losing its naturally Targaryen shine, rather a more storm grey.

The man was sickly, thin, and grotesque, but unfortunately still alive.

I quickly bowed, showing him that I hadn't forgotten the first lesson he taught me, and I hadn't.

"Look up." He demanded. I did what he said, no questions asked.

He stared at my face and sneered. "Look at you, less of a dragon and more of that whore. I should have killed you when you were a boy, should have had you gutted and burned. You wouldn't be standing here, a mistake to the Targaryen line."

"Yes, Your Majesty." I replied hollowly. _Just let him talk, let him have his way._ "My King, I have faithfully, performed the task you have placed me-"

"Yes, working with other little bastards like you. Tell me, did you feel at home? Did you huddle around a fire, discussing your whore mothers?" He demanded.

"Yes, my King." I lied.

Aerys Targaryen huffed, "Should have burned you when you were still in your whore mother's womb. She squealed like a pig, do you remember?"

"Yes, my King."

"Do you squeal like a pig when you dream about it? Answer truthfully, I'll know if you're lying."

"…..Yes, my _King."_

I don't remember how long it went on, the verbal abuse, the taunts about my mother, and how I had to agree that I did all sort of heinous atrocities. I don't know if a lesser man-someone who wasn't raised like this- could even take it, but I had to take it.

For my family. I promised I wouldn't antagonize him and I mean to keep that promise.

"You know why I called you here, bastard?" Eventually, Aerys demanded of me.

"No, my liege."

"It's because for the first time in your pathetic life, you finally have some real use to me." Aerys admitted, which slightly surprised me. I always knew he was wasting most of my life with demeaning tasks, but to do something of actual worth?

I'm a bit concerned as to what.

"The Lannister Head- Tywin- has a daughter. You're going to marry her."

….What?

 **Chapter 1 completed!**

 **Remember how I said "I wasn't going to curse much?" Well….I may have gone a little overboard when I was working on Aerys Targaryen, got a little too much into the character.**

 **Anyway, bet you all didn't see that ending twist! Now the main character is going to marry Cersei Lannister! Will this change anything? Will this change EVERYTHING!?**

 **Why does Aerys want the Lannisters and Targaryens unified after** _ **not**_ **accepting Tywin's previous proposal? What game is the Mad King playing?**

 **Oh yeah, quick discussion on the Mad King. The little backstory I added about Aegor Targaryen was to tie in the fact that, yeah, the Mad King's mad, but he's not….you know,** _ **mad**_ **mad. He's still got plenty of brains to throw around.**

 **REVIEW AND PM!**

 **MAY THE FLAMES OF YOUTH BE WITH YOU, ALWAYS!**


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